


Pray

by SandrC



Category: BomBARDed (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 14:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: But he played her song—their song. He looked like Doyle, like her, but older and worn. His hair, his eyes, his mouth. He frowned and it was her. He hemmed and hawwed and it was Doyle. He stared her right in the eyes and cut to the chase and it was so apparent it was him.He was eight and he was taken.





	Pray

**Author's Note:**

> *sits down to write out my feelings about Linda Greentrees*
> 
> *hammers out 1.7K words on accident*
> 
> Oops...
> 
> Anyway, uh, long time reader, first time writer. Hope it holds up.
> 
> Here's to you, chaos sauce official fanclub Discord!
> 
> Because we were talking about Linda and our feelings and I got in my own head about it.

Randy was eight and he was gone. He was gone and she didn't know why or who or what but _he was gone._

Randy was _eight_ and he was _gone_ and she prayed to find out why.

One whole year of prayer, like a battered ritual. _One whole year_ of asking Altonia "Why him? Why now? What did we do to deserve this? _Why me_?" One whole year of asking, in her darker hours, "Is he okay? Did I do something wrong? Is he even still alive?" She knelt at the altar at the Mons Organum and prayed fervently like it was all she could do.

_It was._

One whole year before she stopped praying for him to come home.

Randy was taken at eight and he was gone and she had stopped praying for his return but never once stopped praying for his safety. He didn't need to be home if he was safe. He didn't need to be home if he was alive.

She hoped he was alive.

And then, in the midst of her grief, there was Corinne. Corinne came and she felt..._different_. Not better. Not _good_. Different.

She was angry and confused and lost. She broke things and fell apart. Doyle had to take care of Corinne because she couldn't—_she couldn't_—! And when she _could_ it _wasn't the same._

Corinne _wasn't_ a replacement—she kept having to tell herself that, despite it all. Corinne was _her own person_ but—

She smiled and she saw him and _he was eight._

She laughed and she heard him and _he was gone._

She loved the same song she sang and it was so like him that she had trouble separating them and she had to pray.

"Altonia, harmony and wisdom, please grant me the strength to move forward. He's gone and not coming home and I _need_ to remember that. _I can't keep seeing him in Corinne._ I _can't_. It's not _fair_. And I can't keep holding up hope. It's _killing_ me. So Altonia, who guides our hands and hearts, help me let go." And the prayer did not leave her feeling content. It left her feeling "_wait_" and "_patience_" and "_faith_". It left her with Altonia's whispers in her heart.

She did her best by Corinne. She _tried_.

He was _eight_ and he was _taken_. _She_ was eight and she _wasn't_.

On her ninth birthday, she cried for a whole day. Corinne didn't understand—_of course_ she didn't. It wasn't her problem, her history, her _burden_—but she wanted to know why mother was sad.

"It's _okay_, Corinne. Don't worry, baby. It's _fine_."

But it wasn't enough. Corinne pressed again and again and _again_. "What's wrong? Why? _Why_?"

And she broke. And she yelled and she cried.

Because he was _eight_ and _she_ was nine and _he_ was gone and she was _here_ and _what kind of mother was she_ when one of her children was dead? Gone? And the other wasn't?!

It wasn't fair to Corinne. They _both_ cried. Doyle held them as they wept. He was the strong one that day. He had been the strong one for _nine years_ now.

_No more_.

The next day she trained Corinne how to fight. To call on Altonia. To defend her home.

He as eight and he was _gone_. She was _nine_ and she was _here_.

It would _stay_ that way. She would make sure by hook or by crook. By blood or blade. It would stay. She would be safe. She was _nine_ and she was _here_.

And then, as things happen, time passed.

From time to time there would be a strange package that found its way to their home. Money and gems and precious things. A tiding to tithe them over until the next strange thing. They were small and worn and carefully wrapped in butcher paper and twine at their doorstep, like an offering.

The first few were checked and double-checked to make sure they weren't poisoned or cursed. The rest were taken in as gifts.

And time, again, _passed_.

As all wounds do, the one regarding Randy closed. She stopped praying for his return and, instead, opted for praying for his _peace_. She didn't look at Corinne and see _him_. She didn't sing and think of _him_.

Until a note attached to a very fast bird. "_Nowhere Man coming. <strike>Run hide</strike> be ready_." And, scratched out hard enough to bleed through and shred the parchment, is what looks like "<strike>_**Randy**_</strike>".

She can't hope. She _can't_. _Not again_. So she _prays_.

"Altonia, should I trust this note? Should I trust the person who wrote this note? Should I believe it and follow its suggestion?" And, as she prayed, she cast Augury. And Altonia answered.

"_Woe and weal_." The feeling of warmth. A cold sharpness in her heart. The aching of loss. Relief.

She stood up and nodded. Thanked Altonia. Prepared.

Nowhere Men were boogeyman. Fairy tales.

He was eight and he was gone.

One shouldn't discount a warning.

_He was eight and he was gone._

The Greentrees would do as they _always_ did—protect the Hemphills.

He was eight and he was gone.

Then Corinne came in, _guilty_. Had disobeyed _direct orders_. But she said _he_ was home. He was _alive_. He was _here_.

He _couldn't_ be here.

But he played her song—_their_ song. He looked like Doyle, like her, but older and worn. His hair, his eyes, his mouth. He frowned and it was her. He hemmed and hawwed and it was Doyle. He stared her right in the eyes and cut to the chase and it was so apparent it was him.

_Nowhere Men._

_He_ sent the note. Him and his friends—a half orc and a dwarf who were more awkward about the reunion than _he_ was—were here to help.

They didn't need it.

He was eight and he was gone.

The Greentrees can protect their home.

But he pushed and that's _so_ much like her. "Let us _help_. _Trust_ us. We can _do_ things. I'll explain later."

_Woe and weal_. She swallowed her pride and conceded. And they played and the Mons Organum reacted and that was..._familiar_ and she..._she_...

The time came for questions and answers. She called to Altonia for truth and _her son_—her son who she had _lost_, who had _come home_, who was _safe_, _alive_, _okay_—tried to resist. _Failed_, but he _tried_. That hurt more than she expected.

_Woe and weal_. He was _eight_ and he was _gone_ and he was _forty-five_ and he was _home at last._

Or _no_—

He was eight and he was _taken_. Nowhere Men. And he was _groomed_ and _perverted_ and he came back because they told him to take—

Oh.

They wanted someone who could get in the Mons Organum.

They _had_ them.

And he chose to run instead of let them have it.

He still _took_ it.

He was _eight_ and he was _taken_ and he was _forty-five_ and he was _back_ but not for good.

_Why_?

It _called_ to him.

Why didn't you come _back_?

They would've come for them. For his family. For the _one_ thing he _cared_ about.

Why _now_?

Because they were coming. _She_ was coming and she wanted him to _hurt_.

Why won't you _give it back_? It has a _purpose_.

It can _do_ things. _Did_ things. They saw what _could_ happen. It's done _more_, if they could believe it.

He was _stolen_ and she had hoped for _her_ son back.

He came back but wasn't what she wanted.

_Woe and weal_.

Because he was, as he admitted, _not a good person_. A thief. A trained killer. A failed Nowhere Man. A vessel for an unknown evil. But he was _trying_. He was moving forward. He was growing and healing.

And when the Nowhere Man asked for him by name, offered _their safety_ for _his compliance_, she couldn't breathe.

He was _eight_—

He was _forty-five_—

He was _taken_—

And he _refused_. The Nowhere Man lost his temper and, for all their faith and defences, hurt them. Hurt Doyle. Hurt Corinne.

She panicked.

He was _eight_. He was _taken_.

_Woe and weal._

But he offered his hands, asked them to trust him. And his friends took his hands and theirs and grabbed Doyle and Corinne and _then_—

He said he wasn't a good person. That he'd done bad things. Showed her the seal and the crack that was threatening something unknown. Told her of his magic, of the payment accrued.

With that magic, he saved _all of them_.

And with the magic of the organ within the Organum, he and his friends got them _out_ of the Ethereal Plane.

So she had to make a decision.

It wasn't fair to pretend he was the same boy she lost all those years ago. It wasn't fair to hold him to standards that hadn't existed for him for decades. It wasn't fair for her to want him back and be dissatisfied with what she got in the end.

"_Wait_" and "_patience_" and "_faith_". _Woe and weal._ He was _eight_. He was _forty-five._

Corinne was _not_ him.

"_Take it._" It wasn't a dismissal. Not insofar. It was a show of faith. He was forty-five. An adult. He could make decisions worth praise and she knew less about him than his friends did.

Whatever followed him was a threat they couldn't deal with. He had broken travel to help them but the fact remained that it was _his_ fault they had needed help. Harsh words or not, she _had_ to put _her family_ first.

He was eight and he was taken.

He hadn't been her family for thirty-seven years.

The hurt was tangible and made her chest ring—_woe and weal_—but she _had_ to. For Doyle. For Corinne. For Hemphill. So she told him to leave. To put distance between them. That they'd be safe.

His acceptance was worse than the look of shock on his friends' faces. Because he _should_ care but it looked like he _didn't_. Because _they_ didn't need to care but it seemed like they _did_.

But he was eight when he was taken.

And _she_ needed to move on.

So she hugged him—they _all_ did—and then they left. Them to another home in Hemphill until their home was safe again, him to who knows where.

He was eight. He was forty-five. He was gone but _not_ taken.

And she prayed he would come back eventually.

She prayed he would find happiness, even if it wasn't with them.

She prayed he would find family among his friends.

And it hurt. _It hurt_.

"_Faith_."


End file.
